In Dreams
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: Carter's been having weird dreams. Sleep deprivation ensues. CARTER/ROSIE
1. Chapter 1

Ed and I are capitalizing on the stack of stolen hall passes we bought off three-time senior Tiger Janson for $1.25 and half a bottle of the _really_ strong glue we use to piece bird houses together in woodshop due to the recession and glue being cheaper than the combined costs of nails and the resulting thumb splinters for the nurse's station.

We're supposed to be in health class, photo-identifying STDs and taste-testing flavored condoms courtesy of the Trojan spokesperson scheduled to speak with us and the rest of Mrs. Dufonte's third period. Instead, we've been engaged in what Mrs. Dufonte would refer to as "lollygagging"—plundering coffee and ping pong games from the faculty break room, indulging in off-campus strolls, tickling the hall monitor's frayed God complex…

"What's up with you?" says Ed, hand-held dangling by his side.

"What do you mean?" I say, trying to sound casual. I'm pounding back my second can of Liquid Crack, a sleep deterrent and performance booster military eggheads chemically engineered for Dad's special ops team. He keeps a crate in the basement that I've been siphoning for years.

Ed angles the camera at his face and polishes the lens with the hem of his salmon colored t-shirt, "You're weird, I get that, but what's up with the Tourette's in Mr. B's class?"

He's referring to second period. I lost consciousness halfway through a discussion concerning last night's assigned reading, x amount of chapters from Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_, chapters I had intentions of reading before, well, before I realized I was never any good at self-management. I ended up succumbing to the lure of greasy take-out and a chance of engaging in a contrived argument with Rosie, one that made her cheeks flush and my heart consequently twitch a little…

"He, uh…," I shove down the groan threatening to bubble out and shrug, "startled me. You know I'm prone to nonsensical word vomit when startled."

"_O-kay_," he squints into the lens, gives it a final counterclockwise shine before pressing the plastic cap into place, "What about Tuesday?"

"What about Tuesday?" The bell rings and the bottle green doors flanking us _explode_ in synchrony. We're lambasted by hungry band and drama department geeks as we push past the theater and adjacent music hall.

"You fell asleep in P.E."

"In my defense I've always found that class, for lack of a better word, boring?"

"Let me elaborate, you fell asleep in P.E. _during_ a drill, mid-drill. The ball was in the air, Carter-"

"Case in point."

"And what about yesterday when you almost swan dived into your meatloaf?"

"Is it my fault that I've developed an appreciation for humble cafeteria cuisine?"

"Uh uh, Carter, no sale."

"Fine!" I maneuver around a throng of trendy environmentally-conscience kids who've convened to compare hemp sandals. They reek of clove cigarettes. "I _guess_ I haven't been sleeping well."

"For how long?" he says.

"Since—two, three weeks ago?"

"That's a reasonably substantial amount of time," he _hmms_, "Enough to adversely affect your already borderline motor and cognitive functions."

"God," I feel my eyes flutter back, "why are you so obsessed with my well-being? If I was intended to die by means of sleep deprivation then so be it!"

"I hate to say it, Carter, but maybe, just maybe you're slowly, steadily going bat shit. Has that thought ever crossed your fuzzy little mind?"

"Never," I shake my head, "Masons don't go insane, they just don't. You know that crazy Uncle Larry everyone has hiding in their genealogical tree? Not mine. I don't even have a slightly neurotic Uncle Larry."

"You come from impressive stock."

"You bet," I yawn.

Ed laughs and says something about selective breeding as we round the corner into the cafeteria. Indistinct noise, something like cheap push-cart goulash, immediately throttles our conversation. Ed and I cut in front of his sallow A/V club friend and, armed with sporks, growling stomachs and trays that smell of disinfectant, travel down the chrome food line.

The bearded lunch lady grunts each time she empties her steaming ladle.

"Take one of those for me, will you?" says Ed as we near the register, thumb hitched at the vertical display of fruit-studded gelatin cups.

I grab a red one as Ed pays.

Claiming a seat in the lunch room can be a perilous task, but the high school Gods shine upon us and we manage to find room in-between shuffling social rungs. Ed snags the puck-like gelatin from my tray before it even skims the tabletop. He pries the plastic lid off and is swallowing down devastating spoonfuls in Guinness time.

I push a finger over my lips and jerk my head back to where a couple students are gossiping about Mrs. Dufonte's third period class and, more specifically, Lacey Walter's allergic reaction to the Trojan condom samples. According to the Perez in-the-makings, the source of Lacey's allergic reaction has yet to be determined, but is suspected to be the lemon-berry punch flavoring or the latex condom itself, possibly both.

"Why am I suddenly overcome with an overwhelming feeling of regret?" says Ed.

I roll my eyes and peel my milk carton open. I've decided that chocolate milk is the day's single most palatable menu item and consequently, the only thing worthy of living within the confines of my finicky stomach.

"I don't know if this film thing is going to work out," he says, scraping the plastic cup clean. "My parents are giving me crap about choosing a quote-unquote sensible career."

"And what's that?"

"According to my parents? Dental hygiene. Dad doesn't think I'm cut out to brave, let alone pass the medical board exam."

"Don't do it, Ed. Have you seen your parents?" Stepford all the way.

"Yeah," he chokes down another blob of gelatin, wipes a chunk off his mouth with the edge of his thumb, "Screw them."

"You don't mean it."

"Nah," he sighs, corking his eyes shut, "but I wish I did. I really wish I did."

Ed shreds ketchup packets with his teeth, "Isn't that your cousin?"

"What?"

"Rosie?" he nods, "Over there talking to Chelsea and the beefheads?"

"How would I know that?" I hear myself scoff, feel my arms snake across my chest so tight air can't seep in or out, "I don't keep tabs on her. I mean, just because my dad says I have to be cordial doesn't mean I will be. I mean, what am I? Like, pre-pubescent?"

"You seriously need to bleed already."

My middle finger is at full mast, "Eat—"

"Hello, Carter. Ed," says Rosie, stuffing up whatever I was about to say, "May I join you for lunch?"

Ed folds forward, mouth crammed with ketchup and green beans, and pats the vacant stretch of table beside me. He beams up at her and then there's a warm rustle that makes my guts tingle and Rosie's perched on the stool. She smoothes a napkin over her lap and sits pretty, back straighter than rebar.

I pick up a baby carrot and bite the end off, chewing violently while Ed and Rosie exchange anecdotes. Everything about her makes me so… so inexplicably… _hot_. Hot in the sense of fist-tightening anger and seething frustration, definitely not the bewitched, bothered and bewildered brand of hot, definitely—double definitely—not. I mean, she's pretty… like every princess _should_ be. I mean, according to "the magical world of Disney," the admittedly narrow encyclopedia I've referred to all my life for insight into the elusive creature otherwise known as the princess-

"Carter," she says, pinning my eyes with hers-making me all too aware of the fact that Rosie isn't some fairytale princess and that I am _freaking staring._ "I would like to speak with you when we return to your dwelling," her voice lowers, "Regarding a private matter."

I sweep my elbows off the table and straighten my slouch, "Um," averting my eyes anywhere, knocking them around everywhere because maybe pulling spastic seizure faces will make me feel a little less ridiculous for freaking perving on her? Smooth move, Carter!

"Carter?"

What was she saying? "Um…" What was _I_ saying? "Um…" Say _something_! "O-okay?"

She nods and a modest smile graces her lips... her _perfe- _Pull it together, Mason!

Ed's eyes radiate suspicion as he squints down at me, but I pretend not to notice. Partly because we don't have another class together until sixth period and I was planning on skipping anyway, see, Ed and I have mime for sixth period and I forgot to bring my beret, but mostly because mime sucks. Ever since the budget cuts, Lake Monroe has been quietly replacing its art department offerings with cost and curriculum friendly alternatives such as interpretive dance, shadow puppetry and yeah, mime.

The only reason my mime instructor (the unctuous Dr. Wetherbee) hasn't formally denounced my truancy is because he takes generous nips of vodka with his morning, mid-morning, afternoon and mid-afternoon cups of coffee. I suspect Dr. Wetherbee would have a hard time distinguishing a poorly trained student from Marcel Marceau's apparition at any given time. Ed attends mime religiously. He says it helps him relax; I say he likes wearing face paint and funny hats.

I decide to duck out of lunch early and forfeit my tray to Ed. He feeds like a bulimic scavenger, and it's the only reason why he isn't probing my departure. Instead, he pardons my lame excuse and gives me a two-finger wave that shouldn't really pass for an acknowledgment at all.

Rosie lifts her head up and says, "Goodbye, Carter."

Pretending my knees don't shake when she says my name is grueling. I barrel towards the exit, head tucked to my chest and bottom lip wedged between my teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

Rosie is seated at the dining table when I hobble into the kitchen. I drop my backpack on the island and peer into the fridge, ultimately poking inside the produce bin. "I searched for you," she says as my hand closes around a cool nectarine.

I rinse the fruit off under the tap. "I had a committee thing," I lie, taking a bite that's too big for my mouth in hopes it'll get her to drop the subject.

"And what does one do in a "committee thing"?"

"You know," I swallow, leaning against the counter, "c-committee stuff. It's pretty self-explanatory."

She nods, lazily drags her fingertip along the rim of her water glass, "I wish to speak with you now if that is acceptable."

I push my legs forward, "We're talking, aren't we?" and force my butt down onto the chair across from hers.

"You've been avoiding me."

"No I haven't," I scoff, "Would I have agreed to this conversation if I were avoiding you?"

"You would have agreed to this conversation if you suspected that I suspected you've been avoiding me."

"Don't think that saying the same word five times in one sentence confuses me because it doesn't!"

"What?"

"_What?_"

"You are very peculiar, Carter Mason."

"Thank you for that-uh, compliment. All American teenagers strive for peculiarity and apparently I have, uh, reached, possibly exceeded that goal so there! Ha!"

"Congratulations," she says, untapped laughter puckering in her eyes.

"Yep," I say meekly, inwardly groaning at my passing parade of stupidity, "I have homework."

"Then you are excused," she smiles.

I pull my thumbs taut over my knuckles and chew on my bottom lip until it hurts. The doorknob turns easily and I'm shoving a noodley shoulder inside my bedroom and diving onto my mattress in one breadth. It isn't long before my eyelids begin to sink and I hear myself yawn, "Just 10—alright, five minutes. Just five minutes…"

It always starts off innocently—the dreams, I mean. Rosie and I petting ponies or blowing bubbles or plaiting one another's hair: don't ask, don't ask, fabricated example in that order. The first dream freaked the steaming stuffing out of me. One second we're feeding sugar cubes to skewbald Shetland ponies, the next we're… doing stuff. _Weird_ stuff. And they always end the same, with a lingering down-low thump that threatens to drizzle down my thighs like warm molasses whenever Rosie is around.

_ My bottom stings. _

_Her warm mouth touches my ear, "Do as I say, Carter." I'm blindfolded, but I know who's touching me. _

_My naked body trembles as she tugs my arms behind my back and winds coarse rope around my wrists, tight and then tighter. "So that you will remember," she says sweetly, like discolored flesh is a Hallmark-worthy memento. _

_She traces the pulsating lines along my throat before her palms curve against my shoulder and perfectly manicured nails bite into my skin. "On your knees!" She says, pressing down, coaxing and forceful, "I _command_ you." And that's all it takes for my legs to weaken and bow._

_ She drags her fingers down my face, grasps my chin in her fist, "Would you like to see your queen?"_

_ I'm shivering, "Y-yes."_

_ "I don't believe you." Her hand leaves me, but I don't miss it because before long her fingers knot in my hair and she's yanking my head back sharply. "Louder," she says._

_ "Yes!" I pant, "Please."_

_ The scarf falls from my face, but I keep my head tucked low against my chest even when she perches a heeled foot on my shoulder. Her hand crooks my chin up so that she can smother my eyes with hers and a strangled sound leaves me. Rosie smiles, lets me press my lips to the inside of her thigh, lets me lap at the delicate flesh adoringly. _

"_Are you eager to service your queen?" she says, half gasping, hazy eyes not quite shuttered, "Show me."_

"Carter! Carter, are you okay?"

My body shoots up rigid, ruffling the curtain of sweet-smelling brown hair draped over me. I'm sweaty and damp and inexorably guilty. "Huh?" I manage.

"You called for me," she says, a hint of pink brightening her cheeks.

"I—I did?" I blink, and then a horrifying thought- "Did I, um, say… anything else?"

Her cheeks darken but she shakes her head "no" and turns away, hooded eyes downcast. I should just leave it at that, a succulent white lie on a silver platter-easy, but… "Rosie?"

She stiffens and I have to fight down the petrified lump leaping up my throat, "It's okay."

She bites her lip.

"It's alright," I urge.

"You might have said something," she swallows, eyes both wooly and alight.

"Along the lines of?" I press, bemoaning my curiosity.

"Along the lines of-," she stops to de-frog her throat when words roll out raspy, "of pleasuring your queen."

Hearing the words from her mouth fires roiling lava through my veins and I hear myself whimper. Rosie's hand hovers over mine and the delicate warmth forces my eyes shut tight. "But Carter," she says, coarse, thick, and unsure, "I am not yet a queen."


End file.
